Vacancies: No
by RH Chello
Summary: He spent an entire year dreading his fate only to be blown off last minute by the most retarded excuse.


_I was at Disneyland earlier this week and I looked up randomly to see this guys shirt. It was really creepy and something you'd never expect at Disneyland of all places. It said "Hell was full so I came back," and being the Supernatural geek that I am, I instantly thought of Dean and the deal. Read on. _

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**Vacancies: No**

_**Hell was full...** _

Hell wasn't exactly what Dean had expected. He'd been waiting for the more traditional fire-and-brimstone type stuff. None of this whole floating-web-of-chains-and-dangling-mid-whatever-this-was-by-meat-hooks nonsense. Where was the fire? The charred piles of flesh? Hell – heck – where were the demons?

The instant Dean opened his awareness to the lightening storms, scarlet clouds, and constant pain, there wasn't any doubt that he was in hell. The deal was closed. His end of the bargain had been fulfilled. Sam was alive and Dean wasn't. the only thing left to do was to endure the consequences and hope he wouldn't break.

Pain he could handle. Pain he was familiar with. But whoever said if you endured enough of something you'd eventually become numb to it was either a big fat liar or an ignorant prick. Dean didn't really care as long as the little idiot was down here with him. There wasn't much Dean cared about these days. It was just physical agony and loneliness and nothing else. Sometimes he wondered if some people became demons simply because it was something different to do to escape an eternity of boredom.

This, of course, was only wondered in the farthest reaches of Dean's mind. It was in this insane piece, which must have been knocked loose by the constant torment, that a creepily stoic Dean yawned at the sheer repetitiveness and monotony of it all. This Dean felt oddly cheated by the entire thing. A few mortal wounds that never healed and infinity alone? It was nothing that Dean Winchester couldn't handle. He would have screamed a defiant, "Bring it on, bitches!" to whoever was listening out there if self preservation and the logic of a Dean not quite dead hadn't prevailed. It was comforting to know that at least some of his cocky old self had stuck around for the show, though.

Still, this PG version of the hell Meg had taunted him about was beginning to grate on his nerves. Sure he was in horrible, unthinkable misery and he missed Sam so bad it was a constant stabbing throb that pulsed in time with his spilling blood, but Dean just couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to hell than what he was being exposed to. Whether or not that was done on purpose to intimidate him had remained to be seen. The little, insane part of Deans' brain had a morbid curiosity with this idea.

With nothing else to distract him from his torture, Dean was reduced to pondering his existence. Or lack of. Who had the energy to be sure of anything? Dean was pretty sure this new uncertainty was number one on Hell's agenda of What to Do to Dean Winchester That Will Be Sure to Erase His Humanity and Turn Him into a Mindless Drone Demon within the Next However Many Years He'll Be in Hell. Whatever. He was too confused to be worried about how long he'd been in here anyway.

There was now way to tell time in Hell. Had it been a minute? A day? A century? Was Sam even still alive?

"No to the first three and yes to the fourth,"

Dean would have jumped if the chains hadn't been in the way. He lifted his heavy head from where it hung limply on his blood slicked chest. There, standing… or floating… hanging…? Whatever. There, before him was the ugliest thing he'd seen since he shaved half of Sammy's head off in his sleep. He wasn't sure how to describe it, but the thing was dripping bloody snot, decidedly unclean, and reeked like a dead carcass with a bad case of BO. And it was talking to him. And… was that a… smile? On that thing that couldn't possibly qualify as a face? Well whadaya know. It was. Terrific.

"Who're you supposed to be?" Dean rasped unimpressively. "The welcoming committee? Well, you're late. I'd like to make a complaint." The customary smirk took its sweet time sliding over bloody scabs.

The thing's bloodthirsty grimace widened. Okay. Creepy. "Dean,"

He nearly cringed. It was the same condescendingly indulgent tone the crossroads bitch'd used.

"Snarky as always, aren't you my boy?"

"Ain' cher boy, fugly," Damnitt, the words came out slurred. The energy it took to snark and hold his head up at the same time was already deserting him.

The thing – demon, it had to be… well, finally – cocked its head with a smug expression. What Dean wouldn't give to shoot it off with his trusty sawed-off filled with rock salt.

"I'm not the one hangin' on meat hooks, boy. Ah –" It held up a scaly finger to keep Dean from retaliating. "I've got some good news for you, Dean Winchester. It's your lucky, lucky day." Oh so it was day, then? "We seem to be having some problems with space down here in Hell." It grinned at Dean's suspicious incredulous look. "What? You thought Hell had infinite space all for free?"

Dean raised an eyebrow at it, all the while thinking, _I can't believe I'm humoring a demon._

"We've got limited resources, too, my friend. Just like you little humans up there all complainin' about trees and oil and global warming."

Dean coughed.

"Well," the demon continued. "Due to some difficulties in housing, you, Winchester, are free to go."

No matter how undignified it was to appear unsettled in front of the enemy, Dean gaped. And instantly hardened his expression, knowing something else must be coming.

"No catch." The demon practically sang gleefully, obviously enjoying Dean's wary bewilderment. "At least," it paused to wink a grotesque eyeball, "for now." It grinned a hideous twist of lips. "Ba bye, now. Be good." It slapped a beefy hand on Dean's bare shoulder before he could so much as squawk a protest or demand a better explanation. Dean felt a dirty, slimy sensation wash over him. There were flashes of burning pain, falling, and delighted cackling all in a whirlwind. Then everything crashed to a stop to settle in suffocating blackness. He could barely breathe.

_Sam…_

Dean jerked awake to dark humidity and the smell of damp wood, dirt, and dried sweat. The stench of burning flesh was still pressed to his nostrils, but only as a memory. Of what, though?

Panic yanked at his gut as he realized he had no idea where he was or how he'd gotten there. The last thing he remembered was the hellhound… Lilith… then… Suddenly he could feel the wooden walls – a coffin, must be – and musty air crushing against him from all sides. Claustrophobia made the blooming panic wrench even harder. He desperately sucked in a dusty gulp of air.

"Help!"

**_...So I came back._**

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_I couldn't figure out where exactly to put the T-shirt quote 'cause it didn't seem to fit anywhere. So I got lazy and stuck at the beginning and end. If you can think of better places to put it, just let me know. Thanks for reading!_


End file.
